When it comes to revolutions it's possible to go too far, and they have gone it. They're chopping off head after head while the crowd cheers. It's the aftermath of the French revolution, the 1780s, and the Reign of Terror prevails, perhaps another case of the cure being as bad as the disease. Most social movements follow a similar path only in revolutions the results are more dramatic. Fidel Castro worked his way down to government mailmen.
I'm going to call this "revolutionary inertia." Inertia means an object continues its motion until acted upon by an opposite force. The Salem witch trials resulted in more than twenty hangings and only stopped when he girls started accusing community leaders. That's all for now, and thank you for your kind attention.
The citizens have deposed the King and taken over France and the first thing they do is start beheading whatever aristocrats they can find reason to. Everybody's getting it in the neck, and the guillotine is in the public square, the executions surrounded by screaming mobs of the newly empowered and bloodthirsty. Intolerable.
So a wealthy Englishman, Anthony Andrews, while posing as an effete and shallow fop, periodically disguises himself, visits Paris, and with the help of some comrades smuggles handfuls of aristos out of the country. The Committee on Revolutionary Protocol or whatever it's called is furious with this mysterious "Scarlet Pimpernel" who seems intent on helping suspects escape the bloodbath. We don't actually see any heads tumbling into baskets, thank God. There is a good deal of action and suspense that underlines the intrigues we see developing in the story -- clattering tumbrils, galloping horses, an occasional knife duel.
Especially annoyed is Ian McKellen as the Minister of Executions or whatever he's called. And he SHOULD be. Andrews, still in his guise of a peacock, has managed to swipe McKellar's beloved Jane Seymour. Seymour, of course, knows nothing of Andrews' secret persona and neither does anyone outside of Andrews' small circle of conspirators.
Jane Seymour is delicious in her 18th-century finery, despite a fright wig of such proportions that it carries its own weather system. Andrews is all right with both identities except that NOBODY in his right mind could endure the presence of Sir Percy Blakeney, Andrews' fop identity, for more than one or two awkward moments. Really, the guy could clear a room without using a gun.
"They seek him here, they seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That damned elusive Pimpernel," is some doggerel he improvises in the presence of the revolution's head honchos, much to their annoyance. Sir Percy struts around in his meticulous dress carrying a tiny magnifying glass through which he examines persons of a lesser breed, his head tilted back, his nostrils quivering.
Best performance is by Ian McKellen who is truly in love with Jane Seymour and is emotionally damaged by seeing her drift away into the arms of that English snob. But he does an extraordinary job of projecting his anguish, torn between his love for Madame Seymour and his allegiance to Madame Guillotine. You know something -- McKellen is a youngish man here, not the wrinkled and wretched fairy of "Gods and Monsters." In fact he's handsome and rather rugged. He resembles Leonard Nimoy so much that there were times I thought it WAS Leonard Nimoy. Is it possible that McKellen and Nimoy are one and the same person? No? Has anyone ever seen the two of them together in the same room?
I thought not.
I'm going to call this "revolutionary inertia." Inertia means an object continues its motion until acted upon by an opposite force. The Salem witch trials resulted in more than twenty hangings and only stopped when he girls started accusing community leaders. That's all for now, and thank you for your kind attention.
The citizens have deposed the King and taken over France and the first thing they do is start beheading whatever aristocrats they can find reason to. Everybody's getting it in the neck, and the guillotine is in the public square, the executions surrounded by screaming mobs of the newly empowered and bloodthirsty. Intolerable.
So a wealthy Englishman, Anthony Andrews, while posing as an effete and shallow fop, periodically disguises himself, visits Paris, and with the help of some comrades smuggles handfuls of aristos out of the country. The Committee on Revolutionary Protocol or whatever it's called is furious with this mysterious "Scarlet Pimpernel" who seems intent on helping suspects escape the bloodbath. We don't actually see any heads tumbling into baskets, thank God. There is a good deal of action and suspense that underlines the intrigues we see developing in the story -- clattering tumbrils, galloping horses, an occasional knife duel.
Especially annoyed is Ian McKellen as the Minister of Executions or whatever he's called. And he SHOULD be. Andrews, still in his guise of a peacock, has managed to swipe McKellar's beloved Jane Seymour. Seymour, of course, knows nothing of Andrews' secret persona and neither does anyone outside of Andrews' small circle of conspirators.
Jane Seymour is delicious in her 18th-century finery, despite a fright wig of such proportions that it carries its own weather system. Andrews is all right with both identities except that NOBODY in his right mind could endure the presence of Sir Percy Blakeney, Andrews' fop identity, for more than one or two awkward moments. Really, the guy could clear a room without using a gun.
"They seek him here, they seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That damned elusive Pimpernel," is some doggerel he improvises in the presence of the revolution's head honchos, much to their annoyance. Sir Percy struts around in his meticulous dress carrying a tiny magnifying glass through which he examines persons of a lesser breed, his head tilted back, his nostrils quivering.
Best performance is by Ian McKellen who is truly in love with Jane Seymour and is emotionally damaged by seeing her drift away into the arms of that English snob. But he does an extraordinary job of projecting his anguish, torn between his love for Madame Seymour and his allegiance to Madame Guillotine. You know something -- McKellen is a youngish man here, not the wrinkled and wretched fairy of "Gods and Monsters." In fact he's handsome and rather rugged. He resembles Leonard Nimoy so much that there were times I thought it WAS Leonard Nimoy. Is it possible that McKellen and Nimoy are one and the same person? No? Has anyone ever seen the two of them together in the same room?
I thought not.